


In Vita Minerva

by ssclassof56



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 04:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21220280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Written for LiveJournal’s MFU Scrapbook - 2019 Halloween Challenge





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lindafishes8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindafishes8/gifts).

_Vex not the Muse with idle prayers,_  
_She will not hear thy call;_  
_She steals upon thee unawares,_  
_Or seeks thee not at all._

Illya tugged the collar of his ivory turtleneck up to his ears. “I’m chilly,” he declared.

A cordovan oxford prodded him sharply. Lips pursed, Napoleon tilted his head toward the young woman snuggled at his side. A suit jacket of brown flannel check covered her chest. Her legs were hidden beneath burgundy mohair, three clusters of broken threads, as barren as the tree branches outside, lining the front. 

Illya rolled his eyes. “I am through sparing her feelings. It is her fault we are in this predicament.”

Lydia Perkins pulled Napoleon’s jacket closer to her chin. “Professor Bauer tricked me. How was I to know you were really the good guys?”

“Perhaps by thinking critically about the story he fed you. Or do they teach you nothing useful in that glorified finishing school?”

Lydia bristled. “Briarwood is the top women’s college in New England—”

“At producing first-class nitwits,” Illya finished.

Lydia’s mask of affront crumpled. The glare of the single overhead bulb shone in the two fat droplets that ran down her rouged cheeks, past her trembling lips, and onto the checked flannel. Like a petulant, adenoidal banshee, she keened a tune barely recognizable as Annie Lisle, marking each measure with a sniff. “Briarwood, our alma mater, sing we now to thee…”

Napoleon drew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Lydia, who dabbed at her face as she continued to warble. “Nicely done,” he said to his partner.

“You are as much to blame as she is. If you had not felt the need to be ‘big man on campus,’ she would never have known about our particular accoutrements.” Illya brandished his denuded wrist and patted the emptied pockets of his shirt and trousers. “Now we are stuck in here with no means of breakout.” 

“We’re not completely defenseless,” Napoleon insisted. His brown eyes roamed the small, walk-in cooler. Each shelf held a cornucopia of vegetables. 

Illya surveyed the bountiful harvest in disdain, focusing his ire on the greens that drooped against his shoulder. He yanked at the stems and swung a bulbous purple root from the basket. “Are you suggesting that we effect an escape and overpower our adversary”—Illya expelled an exasperated sigh and thrust his burden at Napoleon through a cloud of vapor—“with a turnip?” 

Napoleon held up an elaborative finger. “A well-aimed turnip. Ever been hit by one? Very disorienting, believe me.” 

With a raised brow, Illya tossed the vegetable lightly in his hand and eyed the distance between it and his partner’s head. “Which you no doubt learned at the hands of an irate farmer whose daughter was too beautiful to resist.”

“No, actually. An Italian contadina.” Napoleon turned a placating smile on Lydia, whose anthem had dissolved into watery hiccups. “In a little village outside Udine. I pursued a Thrush courier right through her garden. Turned out she had an arm like Sandy Koufax.” 

Lydia’s glistening eyes stared back uncomprehendingly. 

“Dare I hope it was a fermented turnip?” Illya asked.

Napoleon grimaced. “It was a new suit too.”

“Hah,” Illya uttered with a flash of white teeth. 

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Lydia snapped. “At least he has an idea.” 

Illya’s smile vanished, and the chill in his blue eyes sent the temperature plummeting. “Oh, go back to your mewling.” 

Lydia launched into another soggy verse of “All Hail, Briarwood.” Illya turned his head away in disgust, then held up a hand. A faint noise penetrated the heavy Jamison door. Napoleon pressed his fingers to Lydia’s mouth, shaking his head. She paled at the deadly seriousness of his expression. With a squeak, she pressed her face against his chest and pulled his jacket over her head.

The lock clicked. Illya stood up and, with a resigned sigh, raised the turnip in readiness. The latch released, and the thick oak panel swung slowly outward on creaking hinges.

A blood-curdling cackle greeted him as the shaft of stark light fell across the face of a crone. Prominent eyes, as black as coal and snapping with amusement, gazed from beneath heavy lids. A long, sharp nose curved down toward a sharper chin, the mouth flanked by two deep lines, pulling it at rest into a perpetual scowl. Presently the thin lips were stretched into a grin of fiendish pleasure as she waved Illya’s Special at his uplifted turnip. 

“Hob and his lantern, eh? Well, it might serve against the spirits, but I think you’ll do better with this in your hand.” 

Illya broke into a matching smile and tossed the turnip over his shoulder. “Professor,” he said warmly, taking his weapon and restoring it to his holster. 

“Minerva,” she corrected. “I’ve retired, remember?”

Napoleon intercepted the projectile as it plummeted toward his head. “Their loss was our gain.” 

Lydia scrambled to her feet, trampling Illya’s jacket. “Oh, let us out, why don’t you, Minerva? We’re freezing to death in here.”

“Dr. Endecott to my students, Perkins,” she chided as the young woman brushed past her. “If such an appellation could be granted to you.” 

Illya retrieved his jacket. Picking vegetal litter from the mohair, he followed Napoleon from the walk-in into the comparative warmth of the unheated kitchen. Amid the gleaming pots and neatly stacked dishes awaiting the next day’s breakfast orders lay a large man, his thick torso slumped over the butcher block island. Illya grabbed a fistful of reddish hair and yanked the massive head upward. The man grunted incoherently but did not open his eyes. “What happened to Rogan?” 

“He couldn’t hold his tea.” Dr. Endecott picked up an overturned cup and wiped up the spill with a dish towel. 

Illya released Rogan’s hair, and his face fell to the island with a thud. “What did you do?” he asked as he cut a length of twine from a roll on the wall. “Strike him with a frying pan?”

Dr. Endecott cackled. “Sleeping tablets. Half a bottle, just to be sure.” 

Rogan shifted his arm and issued a tremendous snore. Lydia squealed and sought refuge behind Napoleon’s back.

Dr. Endecott shook her head. “The great lummox. Bauer insisted Rogan here would serve his guests rather than my own people. If that wasn’t suspicious enough, he then sent me off to bed, spouting concern for my angina. Hah.” She pressed a hand to her sizable bosom, encased in a high-necked dress of black crepe, and continued with less vigor, “That man has never been concerned with anyone but himself.”

“Perhaps you should be in bed,” Illya suggested as he tied Rogan’s wrists behind his back.

“Horse feathers,” she declared. “Just forgot to take my pill.” She took a glass from the shelf and filled it at the sink. “And where would you be if I hadn’t come back down to investigate? Still in cold storage.” She fished a pill case from her pocket and chased a tablet down with a swig of water.

“Did you happen to see where our equipment went?” Napoleon asked.

Dr. Endecott pointed to the refrigerator beside him. “Next to the eggs.”

Napoleon opened the Glenco. “And for the _plat du jour,_ a greenback salad accompanied by chilled communicator and wristwatch in aspic.” He drew back his arm to toss the items to Illya.

“Not the money clip,” Illya barked.

“Right.” He placed the articles on the island and slid them gently across.

“What does this button do?”

Napoleon took his Special from Lydia’s curious hands. “Careful now.” He returned it to his holster, then inserted his cufflinks. “I need the jacket back, I’m afraid. I think you’ll find the climate milder in here.”

“Not by much,” Lydia pouted, as he slipped it from the shoulder where it hung, hussar-fashion. “I wouldn’t trust that old witch if I were you.”

Napoleon shrugged into the flannel check. “Temper, temper, my child.” He plucked at the naked threads, his lips twisted, then adjusted his cuffs.

Lydia slipped his communicator into his pocket. At her delicate shiver, he obligingly wrapped his arms around her. 

“What complaints have you against the good professor, pray tell?”

“Oh, she’s always had it out for me, ever since I was a frosh. Imagine trying to flunk me for cutting a few of her dreary Latin classes.”

“Well, some of it may be dull, but there are also beautiful love poems.” He ran a fingertip down her cheek. “For instance, if I were in a romantic mood, I might say, ah, _‘da mi basia mille, deinde centum.’”_

She frowned. “I’d rather hear you say it in English. Dead languages are morbid. Just like that brooch she wears. It’s got human hair in it.”

Napoleon grimaced. “I don’t think—”

“No, it’s true. We asked her. She said it was a remembrance of her grandmother. But we think it’s from her victims.”

Napoleon looked across the kitchen at Dr. Endecott. She stood beside Illya, a dark pouter pigeon, and watched him intensely, her lips in an Etruscan curve. The gold and enamel brooch glinted at her throat. “What victims?”

“The girls who had to leave Briarwood because Minerva wouldn’t pass them.” Lydia nodded toward a tall pot on the stovetop. “Her brother chopped them up for stew, and she wove another little flower from their hair.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

Lydia tossed her head. “She might as well have. If you’re bounced from Briarwood, what’s left?” She wrinkled her nose. “Radcliffe?”

Illya held his watch to his ear. “If you two have finished regulating your body temperatures, we should resume our business with Professor Bauer.”

“‘I come, anon.’” Napoleon disentangled himself from Lydia’s persistent arms. “Stay here.”

She looked in alarm at the slumbering giant who lolled across the island. “With him? Are you nuts?” She clutched his sleeve.

He gently removed her grasping fingers and smoothed the fabric. “Then stay behind me, and be quiet.”

Illya peered through the round window of the swinging door, then waved them forward. The main dining room of the café had bustled with activity on their arrival. Without the scurry of waitresses, the clink of cutlery, and the buzz of conversation, it was eerily still and quiet. They wound their way between the empty tables toward the light which shone from the archway in the far corner. 

Illya raised his hand, and the group halted their stealthy approach. “Sounds like the party’s broken up,” Napoleon said.

Dr. Endecott made a scoffing exhalation. “I saw a whole flock of the ninnies leaving when I came back.”

Lydia started to protest this disparagement, but Napoleon silenced her with a frown.

Illya picked up a small disk of metal from the carpet. “Bauer for Governor,” he read. He slipped the fold-over badge into his pocket. “Getting ahead of themselves, aren’t they?”

“Their plans for the professor are only slightly less ambitious than his own,” Dr. Endecott said severely. “‘Grateful daughters crowned in wisdom,’ indeed. That verse should be rewritten.”

Napoleon’s brown eyes hardened. “He’s one appointee who’ll miss his swearing-in, if we have anything to say about it.”

They moved through the archway and past the restrooms to the end of the short hall. A curtain was drawn across the entrance to the room reserved for private events. A woman’s laugh sounded on the other side. 

“Mother’s still here,” Lydia whispered. 

Illya inched the curtain aside and peeked through the crack, then quickly drew back, his eyes wide. He looked at Napoleon pointedly. 

Dr. Endecott shooed him out of the way and took her own look. “Like a couple of minks,” she cackled softly.

Lydia squinted in confusion. “Mother wore her silver fox tonight.” 

Napoleon moved between Lydia and the curtain. “I, ah, think it would be best if Dr. Endecott took you back to campus now.”

Lydia’s frosted talons sank into his flannel sleeve. “And wind up on tomorrow’s menu?”

“Miss Perkins, you are a nitwit,” Dr. Endecott declared. She disregarded Lydia’s sputtered refutations. “It’s no use flaunting your connections at me. I’m retired, and say what I please. Besides, your mother is in there flaunting enough for the both of you. She’s a nitwit too.”

Napoleon grimaced and steered a fuming Lydia toward the dining room. “I’ll be back.”

Illya drew his Special and took a deep breath. “Perhaps we should wait for them to, um, finish.”

Dr. Endecott snorted derisively. “Neither one of them deserves the satisfaction.” When Illya continued to hesitate, she said, “You must have discovered couples _in flagrante delicto_ before.”

“Yes, but in those cases, I was as surprised as they were.”

“If someone had interrupted Dido and Aeneas, the entire Punic Wars could have been avoided.”

“That is debatable.”

“We’ll do so later. Now close your eyes, and think of UNCLE.”

She gave him a shove and pushed him through the curtain. 

The room was all but vacant, its lights dimmed. Unfinished cocktails and plates of half-eaten hors d’oeuvres littered the tables. A banner stretched across the rear wall: Thank You, Daughters of Briarwood. Beneath the message, a metal frame chair occupied the center of a small dais. A man sat upon it, a woman on his lap. She had stripped down to a black satin slip. Oblivious to their audience, their mouths and hands continued their amorous explorations to a soundtrack of impassioned murmurs.

“Hancock,” Dr. Endecott bellowed, “I said I didn’t want to catch you at this again.”

Lydia’s mother gave a small shriek and scrambled off the professor’s lap, pulling a hem of Alençon lace down to her knees. Illya kept his eyes discreetly raised.

“How dare you!” 

Dr. Endecott ignored the outburst. “I made the mistake of taking Miss Hancock on one of our summer studies in Italy,” she informed Illya. “Her motivations were less than scholastic. Never knew a student so eager to have her bottom pinched.” 

“It’s Mrs. Perkins now,” she spat, as she straightened a purple sash proclaiming her the alumni association’s President. “State Senator Lowell Perkins, and he—”

“He’s unlikely to remain in office if his constituents discover he’s a cuckold,” Dr. Endecott said dismissively. “In Pompeii, I found the future Mrs. Perkins here and Sergio, our guide, re-enacting one of the more lascivious frescoes. This weekend must have made her nostalgic.”

Mrs. Perkins snatched her dress from the floor and looked to Bauer for vindication. The professor ran a hand over his dark hair, smoothing the strands disarranged by Mrs. Perkins’ caresses, then pulled a cigarette case from the jacket which hung on the back of the chair. “Is that firearm really necessary? We’re both over 21, and we’ve broken no laws that I’m aware of.” He lit a cigarette, drew deeply, and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Or are you charged with upholding the laws of morality?”

“How about the law of nature?” Dr. Endecott said. 

“Frederick, will you sit there and let her insult me?” Mrs. Perkins demanded.

“You, my dear? Why, of course not.” Bauer crossed his legs and rested one arm along the back of the chair as he continued, his voice low and mellifluous, “In fact, I will sacrifice the pleasure of your company so that you might take leave of an encounter so clearly beneath you.” 

Mrs. Perkins stared at Bauer, her expression shifting from uncertainty to gratification. His lustful eyes traveled up and down her figure through a haze of smoke. She rubbed a palm along her thigh, a low noise sounding in the back of her throat. Any vestige of misgiving disappeared. 

“See you at the ceremony.” She blew him a kiss, then with a smug smile, gathered her silver fox and passed through the curtain. 

Bauer watched her leave, a complacent curve to his sculpted lips, then slid his gaze to Illya. “You woke Minerva.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval “Have you no consideration for her heart? She should be in bed.”

Dr. Endecott scowled. “I found Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo, and Miss Perkins locked in the cooler.”

“What?” Bauer exclaimed with a dismay that did not reach his eyes. “How did this happen?”

“Your servant,” Illya said.

“My apologies, Mr. Kuryakin. When I told Rogan to take care of you, I never imagined he’d interpret it in that way. An able factotum, but not very clever, I’m afraid.” He looked around. “Where is the scoundrel? I promised Minerva he would tidy up after the party.”

“He grew very tired while waiting for you and Mrs. Perkins to finish your…discussion.”

“Then we must go wake him. A good politician always keeps his word.” He crushed his cigarette under his heel and donned his jacket.

Dr. Endecott fingered the brooch at her neck, her eyes shut. After a few moments, her shoulders squared, and her black eyes snapped open. “I think a restorative pot of tea is called for. Mr. Kuryakin must still be feeling a chill.”

“Tea would be most welcome,” Illya said and waved his Special toward the curtain. 

Bauer crossed the room at an unhurried pace, an increasing paradox. Like a satiated beast of prey, he moved with a languid grace which belied his primal energies. Thick brown hair, sleek with pomade, was touched by silver at the temples. His oval face, with its large, long-lashed eyes and full lips, was of indeterminate age. 

Bauer pulled aside the curtain and left the room, Illya and Dr. Endecott close behind. When they reached the kitchen, Illya stepped ahead. He entered first and held open the swinging door. 

Bauer looked at his manservant sprawled over the island, arms trussed. “Poor Rogan. No more gangster films on the Late Show. He’s too impressionable.” He walked to the cooler and checked inside, shaking his head ruefully.

Dr. Endecott set the kettle on the stovetop and lit the burner. “I prefer honey with this blend,” she said as she pulled jars from a rack.

“As you wish,” Illya said.

“You remember how I like mine, don’t you, Minerva?” Bauer asked. He examined several cups on a nearby shelf, raising his eyebrows at their imperfections, until he found three acceptable vessels and set them at her elbow.

“With gin,” she retorted over her shoulder.

Laughing, Bauer sat on a stool and lit another cigarette. “Well, Mr. Kuryakin, now would be a good time for those questions you wanted to ask me.”

The bright light of the kitchen revealed a delicate network of wrinkles on Bauer’s face. After noting the proximity to potential weapons and avenues of escape, Illya holstered his Special. “Is it not unusual for a college professor, one with no political experience, to be appointed to the second highest office in the state?”

“Perhaps. However, Governor Standish can choose as he pleases, and he was pleased to place his confidence in me.”

“And Mrs. Standish? Do you please her as well?”

“Gloria Standish is a Briarwood alumna, and we have met at various charitable events. I was fortunate that she thought to recommend me when the office came open.”

A woody, herbal aroma wafted through the room as Dr. Endecott poured hot water into the teapot, humming tunelessly to herself. 

“Fortunate for you,” Illya said. “A misfortune for Lt. Governor Drake.”

Bauer‘s lips descended into a frown that was perilously close to a pout. “That poor man. To lose his wife so tragically. So young, so beautiful. But a disturbed psyche often fails to reveal itself until it is too late.”

“You think she was disturbed?”

“As a professor of psychology, I would hesitate to make an official pronouncement without knowing the entire case. But after all,” he said, spreading his hands, “she did take her own life.”

Dr. Endecott placed a tray of steaming cups, along with a selection of additives, on the island.

“Had you ever met Joanna Drake?” Illya asked, reaching for a cup.

“Not to my knowledge.” With a nod, Bauer indicated Illya could prepare his own tea first.

Illya added a drizzle of honey into the amber brew. “She attended your lecture last year at the state symposium on higher education.”

“Did she?” Bauer tapped his lips as he examined the lemon slices. “I wish I had made her acquaintance then. Perhaps I could have helped.”

The discussion lapsed as they sipped their tea. Bauer hummed appreciatively.“Very nice, Minerva,” he said and took a long drag on his cigarette. “A new blend?”

She shook her head with an Etruscan smile. “An old family recipe. I dried the herbs myself.”

Bauer met her eyes over the rim of his cup. He coughed and returned it to the table.

Illya sniffed his tea. “Lavender, mint, and something I cannot identify. I suppose it is a family secret.” 

“All the best recipes are.”

He turned to the professor. “Does the name Thrush mean anything to you?” 

“A bird. An infection. Should it mean something else?” A touch of impatience entered his voice. He extinguished his cigarette in his cup.

“It is a band of international renegades bent on world domination.”

“How dreadful.” He checked his watch. “I expect I’ll be briefed on them once I take office.”

“That may be postponed. My Chief will want to talk with you about the assault on his agents.”

Bauer twisted the ring on his pinky. “That is intolerable. You can’t inconvenience an entire state government. I tell you, I know nothing of this Thrush organization.”

“Illya, are those Thrush criminals as well equipped as you?” Dr. Endecott asked casually, watching Bauer with a gimlet eye.

“Usually.” Illya drained his cup. “Professor, empty your pockets, and remove your jewelry.”

Bauer’s face paled. “You go too far.”

Illya’s Special fell into his hand. “You can do as I say, or you can end up like him.” He pointed the pistol toward Rogan.

Bauer recovered some of his suave assurance. “Very well. I have nothing to hide.” With measured care, he laid his accessories neatly onto the island. 

Illya examined the gold Rolex, inscribed on the back as a gift from the D.O.B. “This appears to be new.”

“The ladies presented it to me tonight. A charming gift, though they needn’t have been so extravagant.”

“And these?” Dr Endecott held out a pair of pearl and diamond earrings.

Bauer gave a delicate cough. “Marisa Perkins was overcome by…generosity. She insisted they would make handsome cufflinks. Of course, I plan to return them.”

“Of course,” Illya said. He patted Bauer down but found nothing more.

Bauer took his seat and returned his wallet to his jacket. “Satisfied?”

Dr. Endecott strained more tea into Illya’s cup, enveloping them in herbal redolence. “A ring can hold many secrets.” 

Illya looked at Bauer’s pinky. “Take it off.”

The professor held out his hand. “It’s too tight, I’m afraid. See for yourself.”

A slight tremor shook Bauer’s hand as Illya tugged at the ring unsuccessfully. 

Dr. Endecott played with her brooch. “The wearer himself usually knows the trick to it.” 

Illya pointed the Special again. The professor ignored it and turned pleading eyes to Dr. Endecott. “Minerva, please.”

_“Sic tempora verti cernimus atque illas adsumere robora gentes, concidere has,”_ she intoned slowly.

“Nations and empires flourish and decay,” Illya recited, “by turns command, and in their turns obey.”

She nodded approvingly, her raven eyes holding fast to Bauer’s. “You know your Dryden.”

A sheen of sweat appeared on Bauer’s forehead. He moved his head in a series of small jerks, but his gaze never broke from Dr. Endecott’s. Slowly he twisted the ring past his knuckle to the tip of his finger. With a cry like a wounded animal, he dropped it onto the island. He pitched forward onto one arm, his head hanging.

Dr. Endecott put a glass of water beside him and touched his shoulder briefly.

Illya grabbed Bauer’s limp hand and examined it, but he saw no needle mark or sign of poison. He picked up the ring. The openwork gold band held a red stone carved with the figure of a woman. It looked antique.

“Professor Bauer,” Illya said crisply.

Bauer lifted his head. The urbane sophisticate was gone. Strands of lank hair hung down his forehead. Dark smudges bruised the skin beneath his eyes. 

“Is it a tracking device?” Illya demanded. “Are they coming for you?”

Bauer laughed bitterly and swung his hand in a sharp, dismissive wave. “There’s only one thing coming for me, and even these Thrush persons could not stop it.”

“Why did the governor appoint you? Who is behind it?”

“What does it matter? You’ve destroyed me.”

Illya slammed his palm onto the butcher block. “Who are you working for?”

Bauer did not answer. He stared at his hand, his breath coming in rasps.

Dr. Endecott laid her gnarled fingers over his and patted them three times, once for each word. _“Veritas odit moras.”_

Bauer lifted his large eyes, squinting in the glare of the lamps. In the bright light, a yellow haze veiled each iris. With awkward, lurching movements, like a tangled marionette, he sat up and drew a deep, wheezing breath. 

“I have no master,” he declared, his voice rough and fervent. “Why would I need one? I have an entire army at my command. They will sweep all before me as I march onward to the highest seats of power.” 

A fit of coughing racked his body. He grabbed the glass and drank greedily, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The Daughters of Briarwood are dispersed around the globe. There is no industry, no social strata, no level of government outside their influence. And I hold them in my thrall.”

Illya’s lip curled in distaste. “Like Gloria Standish?” 

“My loyal devotee. She’s the real power in this state. Standish doesn’t make a move without consulting her.”

“What about Joanna Drake?”

Bauer licked his thick lips. “Gloria introduced us after my lecture. Her body was mine that very night. Her soul quickly followed. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for me, no degradation she wouldn’t submit to gladly.”

“Did you kill her?” Illya asked flatly, his blue eyes deathly cold.

“I didn’t have to. I simply told her it was over. She could not face life without me.”

“And Drake was a broken man.”

“Yes. That surprised me. I had her letters and a file of photographs ready to encourage his resignation. In the end, they were unnecessary.” 

Another round of coughing, worse than before, convulsed him.

Dr. Endecott refilled his glass. “I think we’ve heard enough.”

Bauer took the water with shaking hands, sloshing it onto the island. “I’m so tired, Minerva. I had forgotten how tired.” He swallowed with difficulty, then slumped over the island, every breath a gasp.

“What is wrong with him?” Illya asked.

“Emphysema. He smokes too much.” She collected Bauer’s unfinished tea, fouled by his cigarette, and dumped it into the sink.

“He needs medical attention.”

“Not a local hospital,” Dr. Endecott advised. “Too many Briarwood connections.”

“I will have UNCLE arrange for an ambulance to transport him to New York,” Illya said, pulling out his communicator. “And have Personnel check for Briarwood graduates in headquarters.”

“Will you go with him?” she asked, leaning against the sink.

“Not yet. We need to meet with the dean. The professor’s office and home also need to be searched. There may be other files of blackmail prepared.”

“Don’t forget, there will be a hot meal for you here whenever you want it.”

“I will not. I will also not forget the Fall Dance tomorrow.”

Dr. Endecott shook her head. “You’ll be far too busy for college tomfoolery.”

Illya kissed her hand. “I look forward to it.”

Her pleased grin collapsed into a scowl as she winced and clutched his fingers. He wrapped a supportive arm around her. “You have overdone it,” he said, and she cackled softly, nodding.

“What’s wrong with everybody?” Napoleon asked, strolling through the swinging door. He hesitated and sniffed the air suspiciously.

“It took you long enough,” Illya responded.

Dr. Endecott pointed to the leaves on his jacket. “I see Perkins dragged you into the bushes. Like mother, like daughter.”

Napoleon brushed at his shoulder. “Actually, the gates were locked, so we had to climb over the wall.” He cocked his head, looking at the two men lying across the island. “What happened here?” 

“Bauer confessed,” Illya said.

“So our tip was right. Something really was ‘rotten in Briarwood.’” He bent over and poked Bauer’s arm. The professor shuddered and hacked. Napoleon hopped back. 

“He’s had a pulmonary attack of some sort.” Illya steered Dr. Endecott toward the door. “You can arrange for his medical transport to headquarters. Then the tables in the back room need to be bused.”

“Where are you off to?”

“I will make sure Minerva gets safely to bed.” He frowned at her with mock severity, his eyes twinkling. “And stays there this time.”

“Illya, if I were forty years younger, I’d tell you exactly how to accomplish that.” She cackled and patted his cheek. “There’s a little Perkins in me too.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Dead, sir?” Illya said incredulously. He sat on the hotel bed, communicator in hand.

“Yes, within the last hour,” Waverly replied. “Cardiac arrest brought on by acute pneumonia.”

“Can Medical account for such a rapid decline? Bauer appeared to be in vigorous health, to say the least, up until his confession.” 

“The autopsy may tell us more. Bauer’s servant has given us an outline of his movements and a list of his”—Waverly cleared his throat—“well, suppose we call them associates. Section IV is ready to examine his papers when they arrive.”

“Be aware, sir, that the files include photographs of an explicit nature.”

“Do they, indeed?” Waverly said, the frown evident in his voice. “I will give them fair warning.”

The line cut off with a click, and Illya closed the communicator.

“Thus ends the Briarwood Brigade,” Napoleon said as he adjusted the fall of his purple toga.

“Watch yourself tonight. They might be looking for a replacement.”

Napoleon acknowledged the advice with a small salute as a knock sounded on the door. “That must be your costume. I wonder what Minerva picked out for you.”

Illya found two bellhops in the hall. The first carried a large box to the bed, while the second leaned two brown-paper parcels against the wall. Illya placed a tip into their outstretched hands and shut the door behind them. The long, skinny parcel contained a spear, the round one a shield.

“Ah, a gladiator,” Napoleon said, combing his damp hair forward. He twisted his lips thoughtfully. “Should Caesar give you a thumbs up or a thumbs down?”

Illya opened the box and pulled out a plumed helmet. “Not a gladiator. Mars, the god of war.”

“Delusions of grandeur.” Napoleon shook his head, then touched up the artful arrangement of locks that fell across his forehead. 

Illya displayed the label inside the short woolen tunic. Aimes Costumes, Mars, 5’8”—5’10”. “Some men be never at heart’s ease while they behold a greater than themselves.”

“That’s my line.” Napoleon set a laurel wreath on his hair. “You’ll be chilly. Maybe you should’ve suggested a burnoose.”

Illya held the bronze breastplate to his chest. The cuirass bulged with rippling muscles. He shouldered Napoleon aside to look at himself in the mirror.

Napoleon grimaced. “Don’t forget those are fake. No lion wrestling tonight.” The armor gave a metallic thunk as he rapped it with his knuckles.

“That’s Hercules,” Illya said derisively. “You had better go. They are expecting you at the Senate.” 

“‘Et tu, Brute?’” Napoleon took a dark blue cloak from the small closet and, lifting a hand in imperial benediction, departed. 

Illya rolled his eyes and continued unpacking the box. The elaborate costume was worthy of a theatrical performance. He stripped down to his briefs and donned each piece, then checked his appearance in the mirror. The tooled leather boots were open-toed and rose to mid-calf. A girdle of matching leather straps hung at his waist. The cuirass fit snugly around his torso, augmenting his lean physique. 

He fastened the blood-red cloak at his right shoulder with a clasp of twisted gold metal and slipped his arm through the straps on the back of the shield. The tip of his spear preceded him into the hall by several feet, and the crest of his Attic helmet brushed the lintel as he passed.

Cold autumn air bit at his bare toes as he stepped from the lobby onto the sidewalk. The village, replete with figures from antiquity, looked more like a studio backlot. Romans, Greeks, and Egyptians strolled in the general direction of the college. A group of more mischievous students had dressed as time-traveling space explorers from a popular TV show, to the obvious annoyance of an elderly Mark Antony and Cleopatra.

Illya crossed the street to the Witch’s Brew Café. The windows within the green and maroon façade were dark. A sign on the door informed patrons that the restaurant was Closed for the Fall Dance. 

Illya rapped on the frosted glass. After a few moments, a light flickered on deep inside the café. A shadow grew larger as someone approached. The door swung in, jangling the bell.

Illya struck his chest with his fist and bowed. “Hail, Minerva, goddess of…”

His greeting trailed off. The feet he viewed were slender with gold painted toenails. The sandals straps continued up trim ankles and disappeared under the hem of long white tunic. A golden stola lay in delicate folds over her torso, bound under the full breasts by a jeweled girdle. A long, tasseled shawl curved sinuously about her figure and over her left arm, where a gilded snake coiled around the smooth skin. 

A laugh like chiming bells rang out as he lifted his eyes to the face of the goddess. Dancing eyes, as dark as a raven’s and thickly lashed, gazed from beneath heavily kohled lids. The bridge of the Roman nose was wrinkled with amusement, the red lips stretched into a grin of delight.

“Beauty,” he finished.

“Thank you, valiant Mars.” She adjusted her necklace, the glowering face of a Gorgon that skimmed her clavicle. “I have waited several millennia to hear that.”

“Who are you?”

She tapped a gold fingernail on the Corinthian helmet set well back on her head. “As you said, I’m Minerva.”

The cold breeze ran its icy fingers up his legs. He shook his head, as if waking from a stupor. “Oh, yes, of course. May I come in? I’m here to escort Dr. Endecott to the dance.”

The young woman stepped aside. Illya lowered his spear and entered the café. 

“I’m afraid my aunt is unwell tonight. She asked me to give you this.” She exchanged a folded paper for his spear.

The interior was shrouded in gloom. He angled the page to catch the streetlight from the windows.

_Dear Illya, My heart is very bad today, and the doctor insists that I avoid unnecessary excitement. By the time you read this, I will be resting in the arms of Morpheus, a less stimulating but more suitable companion. I ask that you take my niece to the dance in my stead. She is a daughter of Briarwood but not at all a nitwit. She also looks much better in the costume than I did. Fondly, Minerva Endecott_

Illya looked up at the young woman. She leaned her cheek against the spear’s wooden shaft, a subtle da Vinci smile denting the corners of her mouth. “My name is Hespera.”

“Illya Kuryakin. I would be honored to escort you tonight.”

Illya tried to slip the note into a pocket and found he had none.

Hespera chimed in laughter. “Imposing raiment but not very practical.”

He tucked the note into his belt and took back his spear. Hespera preceded him out the door and onto the sidewalk, where they turned toward campus. The streets were almost empty. Strains of music carried on the crisp air.

“Hespera,” Illya said, extending the sibilant. “She was also a Roman goddess.”

“Yes, goddess of the dusk.” 

The wind picked up and moaned in the eaves of the village shops. Hespera draped her palla over her head.

“I should have called a chariot,” Illya said, wrapping his cloak around himself.

“I don’t mind the walk. I’m used to it.”

He looked at her in curiosity.

“The café was my father’s. I grew up in the apartment that Aunt Minerva lives in.”

“Why Witch’s Brew?”

“A nod to our ancestress. A few centuries pass, and what was once a mark of shame is now a badge of honor.”

The street terminated at the entrance of Briarwood College. The school’s name, spelled out in wrought iron and gilt, arched over the opening in the stone walls. Beneath it a banner proclaimed it The Last Days of Pompeii.

“I am sorry Minerva will miss this,” Illya said. “She was amused by their choice of theme.”

“The committee got the idea from the book. Aunt Minerva has seen the real Pompeii.” She looked at him, a roguish glint in her dark eyes. “Her suggestions for decorations were not well-received.” 

Illya coughed. “I can imagine.”

They passed through the open gates. An older man, a bedsheet wound around his uniform, raised his hand to stop them. “Invitation, please.”

Hespera produced a square of cardstock from the folds of her palla. He read it, then peered into her face, heavily shadowed by her shawl. “Good Evening, Miss Endecott.” He tugged at his papier-mâché headpiece, as the second face tried to slip down the nape of his neck. “Back from Italy, are you?” 

“Yes, George, for a short visit. Still willing to enter into the spirit of the occasion, I see.”

“Your Aunt’s idea. I’m Janus, gatekeeper of the gods,” he declared proudly, “and a host of the other things I don’t rightly remember. Course, Minerva had other ideas too, but there are limits to what a man will craft.”

Hespera laughed. “I’m certain there’s a Priapus on campus somewhere. You know those YIT boys.”

“They won’t get past me,” he declared. “Seeing as I’m a deity, maybe now these young hooligans will show me proper respect.” 

_”Dum spiro, spero,_ George,” she said.

He gave a hoot of laughter and waved them along. “Just like your aunt. Can’t understand half of what she spouts either.”

Hespera steered them down a tree-lined path toward the auditorium. The sorority houses along the route had been transformed into ancient monuments with the aid of painted plywood and chickenwire. From inside they exuded modernity, in the form of electric light and rock music.

“Which one was yours?” Illya asked. 

Hespera dropped the shawl to her shoulders. “None. I was too busy helping in the café. Pater had a bad heart too. Something else that runs in the family.” She sighed. “Like most Endecotts, it got him in the end.”

“I am sorry. He must have died very young.”

“Oh, yes. Minerva was more like a second mother to him than a sister. That’s why his death hit her so hard. She never married, you know.”

“Like her namesake.”

Hespera laughed. “A Virgin Goddess? Hardly. But her brilliance in matters of ancient history did not extend to matters of the heart.”

“Is that why she retired? To run the café in your father’s place?”

“Yes. I offered to come home, but she refused.” She lifted her chin. “I’m working on a doctorate in archaeology. Minerva’s heart is too weak for fieldwork; but she said when I’m out on a dig, she feels like a piece of her is out there as well.”

“Yoo-hoo, Mr. Kuryakin,” a voice called. A toga-wearing couple left the porch of the Delta house and walked down the flagstone path toward them.

“Wow, now that’s a costume,” Lydia Perkins enthused. She ran her fingers down the muscled breastplate. “Very virile, but whoever designed it didn’t know much about animals.”

“Those are gryphons,” Hespera said. “They are supposed to look like that.”

Lydia tossed her elaborately curled hair. “Where’s Minerva?”

Illya moved his spear beyond the reach of her curious hands. “Dr. Endecott was indisposed. This is her niece, Hespera.”

Napoleon smiled admiringly. “I can see the resemblance. You’ve the same eyes. Very enchanting.” 

Hespera laughed. “Then you’d best be careful, or they might put a spell on you.”

Lydia looked her up and down. “I’ve heard of you. You graduated with my sister Addie. She’s married to a chief surgeon now.” She straightened her sorority pin. “Are you still waitressing?”

“No, I’ve moved on to ditch digging.”

Napoleon swung his arm toward the house. “Would you, ah, like to come into the party?”

“No, thank you,” Illya said. “We are on our way to the dance. See you there?”

Lydia returned to Napoleon’s side. “It’s more for the alumni, really. Dance cards and all that old stuff. We might stop in after the judging.”

Illya looked at Hespera with raised brows. “The campus organizations each decorate a building,” she explained, “and prizes are awarded.”

“Lydia was in charge of the Delta’s entry,” Napoleon added.

“Yes, and we’re a shoo-in for first place. Have you seen the other ones? It’s no contest really.”

Hespera looked over the façade. “You’ll certainly get Most Original. I bet no one else was bold enough to choose a brothel.”

Lydia gasped. “It’s not a brothel. It’s an imperial palace.”

“So sorry. Your costume confused me.”

Lydia smoothed a fold in the thin, clinging material which left little to the imagination. “What’s wrong with it? They wore togas back then.”

“Oh, yes, many people did. Not empresses, however. Prostitutes.” Hespera fondled the Gorgon at her throat. “Though I suppose Juvenal would argue that there wasn’t much difference. See you later.” 

She took Illya’s arm, and they strolled away to the sound of Lydia’s indignant sputtering.

They left the tree-covered path for the open quadrangle. Illya’s teeth flashed white in the moonlight. “You sounded just like your aunt.”

Hespera’s laugh rang out like a carillon, reverberating off the gothic halls. “It was bad of me, but I couldn’t help myself. _Audax ad omnia femina, quae vel amat vel odit._”

“A woman will dare anything,” Illya translated gradually, “when she loves or hates.”

She nodded. “I remember Adelaide Perkins too well. She was the worst sort of customer and never left a tip.”

She paused and surveyed the plaza. Costumed couples walked the paths criss-crossing the open space. In the silver moonlight, they became a garden of living sculptures. 

“Beautiful,” Hespera breathed. She glowed like marble in the pale, reflected rays, a votive statue carved for men’s adoration.

“Very,” Illya said.

Hespera crooned wordlessly as they walked onward, the romantic tune snatched away by a jealous wind that rushed between them. She raised her shawl to guard herself from its frigid kiss. 

“Please, do not,” Illya requested. “I cannot see your face.”

“I’m cold.”

Illya stepped closer and swung his cloak around them both, then raised his shield against the wind. “There.” 

Her perfume filled their private haven, scenting the air with citrus and spiced dates. He dipped his head, hungry for a taste. 

Hespera put a finger on his lips. “You know, Minerva spurned Mars’ advances.”

Illya drew back. She moved her hand to his neck and pulled him in. “I’m not as wise as she was.”

Their lips touched. Like a plunge into icy waters, the shock of chilled flesh meeting its like gave way to a tingling warmth, one which they were loath to abandon.

“Like mulled wine,” Illya said. 

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” 

They kissed again, warmth building into exquisite heat. They stood transfixed, the vision of an ancient artist, Mars and Minerva Enraptured.

The noisy progress of the space explorers across the plaza invaded their sanctum. Illya’s cloak slid from Hespera’s shoulders as he stepped back. The wind darted between them. 

The da Vinci smile curved her mouth. “I want to dance with you.”

Addams Hall, a neoclassical edifice at the top of the quad, needed no false façade. They climbed the steps and entered the lobby, where a venerable alumna, a graduate of the previous century, received them. 

Illya took Hespera’s dance card and pencilled his name in every space. As he slipped its cord around her wrist, he froze. “Where did you get that?” he asked sharply, staring at the antique ring on her finger.

Hespera withdrew her hand. “It belongs to Minerva.”

Illya’s blue eyes held disbelief. Hespera took his arm and dragged him along the corridor, hung with the portraits of emeritus professors. She halted before a painting of Dr. Minerva Endecott, Head of the Department of Classical Studies. A long chain encircled her neck, at its end a gold ring inset with a carnelian intaglio.

Hespera lifted her hand to the portrait. The rings matched. “It was given to her in Italy. One of her unhappy love affairs. It really should be in a museum, but she liked it too much to part with it.”

Illya considered the ancient band that had once graced the hand of a Roman matron. “How did Bauer get it?”

Hespera sighed. “In a moment of weakness, she was persuaded to give it to him. He was charming, and the attentions he paid her were very flattering.”

“She could have told me.”

“And admit that she was a foolish old woman whose head was turned by a silver-tongue miscreant?” Hespera shook her head.

“So she took it right out from under my nose.” Illya searched the face in the portrait. “Yet she knew I would see it tonight.”

“You’d have realized it was missing eventually. She didn’t want someone else to be blamed.”

Illya kissed Hespera’s fingers, then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. They continued toward the auditorium.

“Will you take it with you back to New York?” she asked. 

“Ask me again later.”

The auditorium was a room outside of time. A big band filled the stage, playing a popular standard. On the dance floor, alumni and parents swayed to the music. They were joined by current students and their swains, who amused themselves with the etiquette of an earlier decade. Eras and empires embraced and parted according to the dictates of the cardstock programs. 

Illya set his spear and shield against the wall with a horde of other ancient weaponry, then took Hespera in his arms and joined the dancers. She closed her eyes and crooned along with the song. Her perfume spiced the air around them as they twirled.

Mars’ armor was made for defensive not terpsichorean purposes. With much laughter, they managed a foxtrot, a two-step, and even a rumba. During the next waltz, someone tapped Illya on the arm. “May I cut in?”

Illya glared over his shoulder at Napoleon. “No,” he said, and spun Hespera away.

She laughed breathlessly. “That was bad form, you know.”

“I don’t care,” he replied, holding her as close as his cuirass would allow.

“I’m thirsty,” Hespera said when the song ended. 

They left the dance floor for the refreshment table, which was surrounded by famished couples.

“Libation?” Napoleon asked, a cup of punch in each hand.

“Thank you,” Hespera said as she accepted one.

As Illya reached for the other, Napoleon raised it to his own lips. Illya rolled his eyes. “Where is Lydia?”

“Poor child, her efforts won second place. She was so disappointed that she sought the solace of her room.”

“You mean she threw a fit and ran upstairs.”

Napoleon grimaced. “Yes. And stamped on my toe in the process.”

Hespera shook her head and laughed. “The Perkinses were always sore losers.”

“How are your toes? I hope they’ve survived Mars’ clumsy efforts unscathed.”

“Illya is a beautiful dancer.”

“You only say that, my dear, because you have nothing better to compare it to.”

Before Illya could protest, Napoleon thrust their glasses into his hands and swept Hespera onto the dance floor. Illya watched with a deepening frown as his partner, unimpeded by a cuirass or helmet, held Hespera close and pressed his cheek to hers. His eyes sought out his spear leaning on the nearly wall.

When the music ended, the band leader addressed the crowd over the applause. “The band will now take a break while the Dramatic Society presents”—he looked down to read off a card—“a thrilling performance of The Last Days of Pompeii. That’ll take place out on the practice field. I’m told the science department has built a ten foot tall model—”

“Twenty foot,” called someone in the audience.

“A twenty foot model of Mt. Vesuvius which they’ve rigged to erupt, making for a memorable event. So if you folks will just exit to your right and follow the torches, we’ll see you back here around eleven.”

As the crowd moved in the direction of the doors, Illya lost sight of Hespera and Napoleon. He pushed his way between the couples, earning several angry objections. When he emerged at the back of Addams Hall, he climbed onto a concrete bench and surveyed the throng. Nowhere could he spot a Caesar and Minerva together. He took off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

Someone touched his elbow. He turned quickly to find Hespera below him. “Missing someone?” she asked.

“Not anymore.” 

He jumped down and took her hand. They stared at each other. 

“Move it, buddy, will ya?” a burly charioteer complained. “You’re blocking traffic.”

Illya looked around with a start. “Sorry.” He led Hespera off the sidewalk and around the tall ornamental hedges. “Where’s Napoleon?”

She ran her fingers through the hair above his ear. “I sent him back in to retrieve my stuffed owl.”

“You didn’t have a stuffed owl.”

“Exactly.”

She lifted her face for a kiss, and he readily obliged. 

“Do you want to go down to the field?” Hespera asked as Illya rubbed his cheek against hers.

“No.”

“A sorority party?”

“Definitely not. Somewhere quieter.”

“The library?”

“I am not in the mood to read.”

Their lips met again in a long, languorous kiss more suited to a floral bower with attendant nymphs than raw autumn night in New England.

“Illya,” Hespera said minutes later, “there’s a suite for visiting professors in Reed Hall. No one’s in residence this semester. We could be alone.”

“Only if you wish it,” he said with a chivalric forbearance at odds with the longing in his eyes.

She nodded. “You can see the whole college from there. Let me show you.”

Hand in hand they crossed the campus, dodging faculty members standing sentinel to point wayward guests back toward the festivities. The ground sloped steadily upward until it reached a brick building which lacked plywood decoration. A sign designated it Faculty Only. Illya hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “They’re all out chaperoning. It’s required.”

In the vestibule, Hespera paused to examine the bank of buzzers. Many of the name holders were empty, including the attic suite.

“Most of the faculty live off campus now. It’s not like it used to be. There’s already plans to convert this into a high-priced dormitory.”

“Won’t the suite be locked?” Illya asked as they climbed the stairs.

“Probably. But a locked door should be no obstacle for you.”

When they reached the top landing, Illya used his cloak pin to pick the lock. He opened the door a crack and peeked inside. The room was dark and still. “All clear.” He reached around to find a light switch.

“Don’t,” Hespera said close to his ear. “I like it this way.”

They stepped into a living room with a tiny kitchenette. Shafts of moonlight, shimmering with silver motes of dust, slanted down from the dormer windows. The furniture was shrouded in holland covers, garbed as ghosts for its own private masquerade.

“Come.” Hespera made her graceful way across the room, like a pale Shade floating through the Underworld, and disappeared through a doorway.

A large gable window filled the back wall of the narrow bedroom, bathing the space with pearlescent light. Hespera pulled a cloth from the upholstered bench spanning its base and tossed it aside. 

Illya dropped his cloak and helmet onto the bed and moved to the window.

“Sit back,” Hespera said. “I want to rest in your arms.”

He attempted to recline against the wall, but sat up with a yelp as the cuirass bit into his flesh. 

Hespera laughed. “Here, let’s get that off you.”

Together they made short work on the buckles. Illya dropped the pieces to the floor with a clank and settled back. Hespera removed her helmet. Her black hair swept down from a center part, curving past her temples like two raven’s wings, and into a cluster of curls at the back of her head. She tucked a stray wisp behind her ear. “I was born with this helmet on,” she said with her da Vinci smile. “I don’t take it off for just anyone.”

Illya held out his hand. “I am honored.”

She lowered herself onto the bench and into the circle of his arms. The campus stretched out before them like a black and white lithograph in an old guide book. Beyond it lay the village and the café. They looked out at the luminous view, content in their embrace, reclining lovers on a marble sarcophagus.

“I will miss this place,” Hespera said, breaking their reverie.

“Do you leave soon?”

She nodded. “Would you prefer it otherwise?”

He nuzzled her hair. “I would like to know you better.”

She reached back to touch his face. “I feel the same. But I’ll be gone very soon.” She dropped her hand and twisted Minerva’s ring. “You can’t relive the past.” 

Illya pointed out the window to the top of the lake. “They have lit a bonfire.”

She turned her head, bringing her face close to his. “We’ll light our own.”

She kissed him fiercely. It was different than before, not a kiss for its own sake, but an ardent invitation. She sat up and unclasped the aegis necklace with its grotesque face. “No more armor between us,” she said huskily, dropping it beside his cuirass. 

“We will miss the fireworks,” he said without a trace of regret. 

“No, we won’t.” She held out her arm, and he slowly removed the gilded snake, his fingertips skimming her alabaster skin.

“And Vesuvius erupts later.” His voice was ragged with desire.

She discarded her jeweled girdle, and with a pace that tore a groan from his throat, gradually lowered herself onto his chest. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling his eager mouth to hers.

“I’m counting on it.”


	3. Chapter 3

Clusters of dark-garbed mourners conversed in hushed tones, sharing remembrances and peering about in embarrassed apology if their more amusing anecdotes disturbed the solemn atmosphere.

Napoleon surveyed the room. “Do you see her?”

“Not yet.”

Illya stared down the program in his hand, his eyes bleak. Minerva H. Endecott, Ph.D. In Memorium. “I did not say goodbye,” he murmured.

“What’s that?” Mr. Waverly asked.

“We had planned to eat a late breakfast at the café before taking our leave.” His tone lurched toward resentment. “But we were recalled to New York immediately. I never said goodbye.”

“You left a note,” Napoleon offered.

“It is not the same.”

A tall man in a charcoal suit and wire-rimmed glasses approached them. “Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” Napoleon replied. “Dean Smith, this is our Chief, Mr. Waverly.”

They shook hands. “It’s a great comfort to the Briarwood family to see that Dr. Endecott was held in such high regard.”

“She provided invaluable assistance to us,” Waverly said. “We were quiet shocked and saddened to learn of her sudden passing.”

“Yes, I fear the terrible business with Professor Bauer was too much for her.” The dean pulled off his glasses and rubbed them with his handkerchief. “She was his mentor when he first joined us, so it must have been quite a blow to learn of his true nature.”

Napoleon raised a finger when the dean looked as if he would expound on that theme. “Excuse me, Dean, is Hespera Endecott here? We’d like to offer our condolences.”

“Yes, she’s right over there.” He pointed across the room.

The dean ushered them through a palisade of black garments. A trace of mothballs and cedar tinged the air. At the center of the group stood a young woman. She faced away from them, a black felt hat of Italian design tipped well back on her dark hair.

Dean Smith cleared his throat. “Miss Endecott, these gentlemen would like to pay their respects.”

Illya extended a hand toward her shoulder hesitantly. “Hespera, I am so sor—”

The woman turned and raised her lace veil. Illya inhaled sharply. “Who are you?”

“Hespera Endecott.” Her brown eyes, moist with tears, held confusion and a touch of annoyance.

Illya looked to Napoleon, who considered the young woman, his head cocked and mouth twisted. “Dr. Endecott’s niece?”

“Yes. What do you want?” 

Waverly, his shaggy brows raised at the behavior of his agents, stepped into the breach. “I am Alexander Waverly, Miss Endecott, and these gentlemen are Misters Solo and Kuryakin.”

“Oh, yes. Aunt Minerva wrote about you in her last letter. I found it by her bedside.” She dabbed her eyes with a square of embroidered cambric. “She never got to mail it.”

Waverly took her other hand and patted it in his grandfatherly fashion. “There, there, my dear. On behalf of the U.N.C.L.E., we wish to offer our sincere condolences.”

As their Chief continued his words of consolation, Napoleon turned toward Illya, his hand in his pocket. “That’s not the same girl,” he said from the side of his mouth.

“A remarkable deduction,” Illya replied with quiet acidity. “Have you thought of going into Intelligence?”

Napoleon deflected the slight with a quick smile. “There’s a strong similarity, sure.” He ran his eyes over her fashionable ensemble. “But this one has a certain _non so che_.”

“I disagree.”

Napoleon flipped through his program. “Did Minerva have a granddaughter?” 

“She was not married.”

“That’s not what I asked.” He nudged Illya with his elbow and held out his program. “Do you see what I see?”

Illya stared at the photograph, eyes wide, then opened his own booklet for confirmation. 

A collage of grainy pictures reviewed Dr. Endecott’s life from childhood to retirement. Above the caption ‘Commencement, with parents,’ a dark-haired man and a woman in a maternity blouse stood beside a young lady in an academic robe. Illya recognized the dancing eyes, the Roman nose, the da Vinci smile. 

“Hespera,” he breathed. “But how?”

Napoleon looked at him as if he were a particularly slow-witted pupil. “A love child.” 

“A love grandchild?” Illya responded.

“Her own mother conceived late,” he said, tapping the photo.

Illya shook his head. “She would have told me.”

“Well, Lydia did say she was a witch. I guess that’s your alternative.” Napoleon returned his focus to the genuine Hespera Endecott, whom Mr. Waverly had charmed into a half smile. 

Illya stared at the photograph. “A woman will dare anything when she loves or hates,” he murmured. 

He ran a hand through his hair. “Miss Endecott, what happened to the ring?” he demanded abruptly. 

“Mr. Kuryakin, please,” Waverly said in disapproval.

Illya ignored him. “The one she wore on a chain. It had a red stone with a female figure carved into it. Please, what has become of it?”

Miss Endecott fingered the necklace of dark beads that lay on her chest. “You mean the Juventas ring?” 

“Juventas,” he repeated. He looked triumphantly from Waverly to Napoleon, who watched him, perplexed and a little wary. “Youth. The goddess of youth.” 

“Yes, she’s the intaglio figure,” Miss Endecott said. “It was Aunt Minerva’s favorite possession.” She lowered her veil to hide a fresh fall of tears.

“That is it.” His voice assumed a professional detachment that failed to reach his eyes. “Your aunt had…loaned the ring to Professor Bauer for a time. We need to examine it.”

“That will be impossible, Mr. Kuryakin. My aunt’s Will was very specific.” She gestured to the table at the front of the room. “She asked to take it with her.”

Without excusing himself, Illya walked off, weaving his way through the mourners until he stood before the table. A marble urn, surrounded by flowers, formed the centerpiece. Dr. Endecott’s portrait had been placed behind it, its frame draped in black.

Napoleon joined him. “Care to tell me what’s wrong? You’re usually more polite.” He made a minute adjustment to the fall of his tie. “Not to me, of course, but I would say in most company your conduct is civil.” 

Illya sighed. “It is a very strange story.”

“My favorite kind.”

“You may think me crazy.”

“Who says I don’t already?”

“All right. But not here.”

“We’ll get lunch. I’m buying.”

“You do think me crazy.”

Napoleon began to point to the urn, then reconsidered, flexing his fingers instead. “Do you want to, ah, say goodbye?”

Illya straightened his shoulders and, bowing at the waist, struck his fist to his chest. “O bright Minerva, vanquisher of Mars, _ave atque vale_. Hail and farewell.”

~~~

“Excuse me, please, won’t you,” Waverly said to Miss Endecott. With a thunderous frown, he headed across the room toward the side door where his agents had exited.

Miss Endecott swung her gaze from his determined pursuit to the table which held her aunt’s ashes. Her hand rested on her beads and fondled the openwork band which hung beneath her dress. “Forgive me, Aunt Minerva,” she whispered, a wan curve to her lips. “You asked too much.”

**Author's Note:**

> The opening stanza of poetry is from “In Vita Minerva” by Oliver Wendell Holmes.


End file.
